Killer (11 page)

“Jack? Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ll tell you later. What’s up?”

“We have a problem. Where are you?”

“Vermont.”

“Have you been home?”

“Not yet. Tell me what’s going on.”

“LAPD is about to release your name as a person of interest in the Beverly Grace murder.”

Jesus.
“What exactly does that mean?” I ask.

“Legally, absolutely nothing. It’s their way of leveraging you to cooperate without formally charging you or calling you a suspect.”

“What does ‘cooperate’ mean?”

“They want you to come back to L.A. so they can talk to you again.”

“Shit.”

“I’ve been putting them off, hoping I could come up with something on your whereabouts in April ’01 but I’ve come up with zip. But if you come back to New York I may be able to get them to compromise on a meeting here, with me present, at the Manhattan DA’s office. You ended the interview abruptly in L.A. and I think they’re mainly concerned that you’ve made a run for it, since no one has been able to locate you. Where were you?”

“Long story. I’d rather not go into it on the phone.”

“Can you meet me here?”

I hesitate.

“Jack, this guy Marsh at LAPD is no dummy. He went back to the scene, at Temescal, and he saw fresh tracks, which he assumes are yours. He’s not gonna let go. If they find the hair clip and it has your prints on it…”

“I know.”

“He has a real bug up his ass about you. He’s reading all your books now. Jack, please tell me where you are. Are you headed home? Because LAPD has asked the Sheriff’s office there to go to your place and wait for you there.”

“I’m on the road, but I’m not home.”

“Jack, listen to me. Don’t go home. You need to come to New York right now. We can talk to the LAPD here, and I’ll be right there with you the whole time. If you want, we can talk to my forensic shrink before the meeting, as a last ditch effort to get you to remember where you were that last week of April ‘01. I’ve already talked to him and he’s willing to help.”

I hesitate again.

“Jack, I know you don’t want to look back at that period of your life but you may have to if we’re going to get you out of this,” she says.

“What about that lead?” I say. “My editor’s assistant, Dontis…assault with a cocktail umbrella?”

“Gregory Dontis. We haven’t been able to find him. My investigator has checked everywhere—police, employment records, DMV, IRS…every place we can think of.”

“Coroner?” I ask.

“…I’m not sure, hold on,” she says. I hear papers shuffling, then she comes back. “It’s not in my investigator’s notes. But he did check police records.”

“Your investigator didn’t check the coroner for a missing person? Who is this investigator?”

“A junior associate here.”

“Coroners and police don’t always exchange information,” I say.

“I know. I’ll call there myself as soon as I get off the phone with you. Jack, don’t change the subject. Come to New York.”

“Alright,” I say. “I can be there tonight.”

“When?”

“Late. I’ll call your cell.”

“Why all the mystery? What the hell is going on?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Look, Jack, don’t fuck with me, okay? I’m your lawyer and I’m here to help you and I
will
help you any way I can but you’ve got to be straight with me.”

“I’ll call you when I get to New York and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I look at my watch. “I’ll be there by nine o’clock tonight.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she says.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It is 9:17 when I cross the George Washington Bridge. I call Nicki’s cell and she answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“Where is here?”

“Heading toward Midtown.”
“It’s too late to meet at the office. Why don’t you come to the Mirabelle Hotel, it’s on 56
^th
. They have a restaurant that’s open late and you can stay there tonight. I’ve already booked a room for you, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.”

“I spoke with Dr. Abrams. He said he can see you tomorrow morning, first thing. His office is three blocks from the hotel. Sound okay?”

“Okay. What about the coroner?”

“I talked to a friend there. She’s checking as we speak. I’ll be at the Mirabelle in fifteen minutes. In the restaurant.”

“I’m not exactly dressed for anything upscale,” I say, thinking of my filthy clothes. “I mean, I look like hell.”

“That’s okay, it’s dark.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Nicki says as she sees me approach her table in the restaurant off the lobby of the Mirabelle Hotel. She stares at my filthy clothes. Then she sees the bandages on my brow and her concern turns to alarm. “What the hell happened?”

I sit across from her and before I can begin to tell her a waiter approaches. Nicki orders something small and healthy and then gets me to agree to a steak and potato and vegetables.

“You need to eat, you look like death.”

I smile and tell her she’s not far from the truth and then I tell her what happened in St. Stephen. Our food arrives just as I finish and she doesn’t even notice. She sits and stares at me, astonished. After the waiter leaves she leans forward.

“This person—whoever assaulted you—did you see him? Do you know him from anywhere?”

“I didn’t see him,” I realize how hungry I am and I start eating. “He must know something…how else could he have been there? And I had this dream…”

“What dream?”

“From when I was drinking. I dreamed about a man…” I trail off, the dream is gone from memory.

“What do you remember about him?”

I shake my head. “Nothing…I don’t know...”

She watches me eat, her brows knitted as she works the problem in her mind.

“It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” I say.

“No, it doesn’t. But there has to be an answer.” Her eyes dart back and forth quickly as she works the problem. “Jack, these women—the pictures. Are you sure you never knew them? Never met them?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t know them. But the pictures… I knew the pictures. I know it sounds crazy…”
“Finish your dinner and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call Dr. Abrams and we’ll meet with him first thing in the morning.”

I nod.

“We’ll figure this out, Jack. There has to be an explanation.”

“What if the explanation is that I’m crazy?”

“You’re not crazy.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“That cut over your eye didn’t come from your imagination,” she says. “There has to be some explanation.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she says. “There always is.”

She takes a piece of paper from her little black Kate Spade handbag. “By the way, you were right about checking with the coroner’s office. Gregory Dontis died in May ’01.” She looks at me. “Good call,” she says.

“How’d he die?”

“Shot with a .22 caliber automatic.”

“How come his name didn’t show up in the police reports?” I ask.

“He wasn’t identified until after the initial investigation. He was a John Doe until the suspects were charged,” she says. “My investigator only asked the police for the initial reports, so his name didn’t appear.”

“I think you need a new investigator,” I say.

Nicki takes a sip of her wine.

“I think you’re right,” she admits.

“Who killed him?”

She looks at her notes. “Buenavestario Funiccilatierro.”

“Say what?”

She slides the paper over to me.

“AKA Bennie Fun,” she says. “You were right about checking with the coroner, but it still doesn’t help us. Dontis is dead and his killer’s been at Sing Sing ever since. It’s a dead end.”

“Who’s this Salvatore Funiccilatierro?” I ask, reading the notes.

“Sallie Fun. Bennie’s brother,” Nicki says. “The brothers ran a small-time sports book and Dontis got behind on the vig, so they showed up at his apartment one night to collect and it got out of hand and Dontis wound up shot in the back of the head and dumped in a ravine off the New Jersey turnpike. Both brothers were charged, and the DA’s office flipped Sallie.”

“Sallie still live in Jersey City?” I ask, looking at the address scrawled under Sallie’s name.

“Why?” she asks.

“If Dontis had the manuscript at his apartment, the brothers show up and kill him, then maybe grab some of his stuff on the way out. Bennie goes up for murder and Sallie’s left with Dontis’s stuff, including the manuscript. Maybe Sallie reads the manuscript and gets ideas.”

“That’s why I’m giving this information to the police, when the time is right,” Nicki says.

“You mean after your skilled junior associate shakes him down?”

“When the time is right,” she says.

“I know people who could check Sallie out,” I say.

“Who?”

“Cops, FBI, people I’ve used as technical advisors for the books.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to give any information to the police or FBI right now, no matter how tight you are with them,” she says.

“Maybe.” I look at Sallie’s address on the piece of paper. Nicki watches me, her eyes steady and serious. The corners of her mouth turn down.

“You’re not thinking of going there to talk to him yourself,” she says.

“Who, me?”

She puts her hand on mine and looks right through me, her eyes clear and hard. I can imagine her using those eyes to penetrate some poor soul in cross-examination.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she says.

I look at her.

“I promise,” I say.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Two hours later I’m sitting in my truck, halfway down the block from Sallie Fun’s apartment building. My truck is equidistant between the two feeble streetlights on the block, where the shadows are deepest. My rearview mirror and both side mirrors are adjusted so I can watch the apartment and also see anyone coming up behind me without turning my head. I keep a steady scan going: apartment, left side mirror, rearview, right mirror… After sitting stakeout with NYPD Homicide countless times I’ve picked up the basics. All I need are some stale donuts and lukewarm coffee.

I glance around the street. It’s not far from the tidy, leafy streets of the Heights, but the gentrification that began in the 1980’s has passed over this particular neighborhood. Graffiti and trash are everywhere, and there are no people out for a stroll on the dark sidewalks. The buildings that line the street are old and ragged. Next to my truck is a parking meter that has been smashed open. I look at my watch. 12:25.

I have no idea what Sallie Fun looks like, and I have even less of an idea what I’ll do if I see him.
Maybe he’ll be carrying a shovel. Or a dog-eared copy of
Killer.
Or maybe I’m wasting my time. But at least I’m doing something.

I lean back against the headrest. If Sallie had the manuscript before
Killer
went to press, he could have killed Beverly Grace. Far-fetched, but conceivable. But it still wouldn’t explain who killed Sharon Belton. I run my hand through my hair, trying to think. Specks of dirt fall onto my shirt. Grave dandruff. I could be showered and shaved and tucked between the crisp sheets of my king-sized bed at the Mirabelle, eating a shrimp sandwich from room service and watching pay-per-view, but I’d still be thinking the same thoughts. Might as well be thinking them here. Nicki wouldn’t approve, but so far I haven’t done anything stupid.

I look at the apartment, at the left mirror, the rearview, the right mirror…

I liked it when Nicki put her hand on mine. I’m sure it was a purely professional gesture of concern, but it was nice to feel the tactile care of a woman. She wears no wedding ring. A boyfriend is likely, given how attractive she is, but from what I’ve seen she works long hours and she seems like she’d be choosy about the men in her life. There is a self-sufficiency about her. She has been friendly and frank with me but there is something guarded beneath it. There could be any number of reasons for that. I’m a client, of course, and possibly a serial killer. There’s that. But I have a feeling there’s something else. Maybe she picked up that I’m attracted to her but I’m not her type. Maybe she’s found the perfect guy and she can think of nothing but him night and day. Maybe she prefers women. Maybe she’s Amish. Probably she’s overwhelmed by my animal magnetism and grave-scent. I try to think about other things, but for the first time in a long time I seem to be preoccupied with a woman.

“Progress,” I say.

A male figure lopes down the street toward me, toward Sallie’s apartment. When he passes under a streetlight I get a good look: thirties, dark hair, small dark eyes, advanced male pattern baldness. He is wearing Air Jordans, Fila sweatpants, and a NY Giants jacket.

“Welcome to 1989,” I say.

He climbs the steps to Sallie’s building and enters. I wait until I see a light come on in a third story window. I count the number of windows from the corner of the building to the lighted window, then get out of the truck.

I cross the street to the building and step into the shadows of the doorway and scan down the list of tenants by the buzzers for the lobby door.
S. Funaculaterri
is misspelled and listed as residing in 3D. The lock on the lobby door is broken so I open the door and go inside.

The lobby is cramped, the walls painted and repainted so many times that the surface is rippled and buckled over the tectonic plates of old paint. The floor is filthy and there is a rusted bicycle frame leaning against one wall, minus both wheels. Next to the bike, a stained twin mattress sags against the wall. When I walk past the mattress I smell urine and something like soiled baby diapers. Somewhere upstairs a stereo is playing. I can’t hear the music, but the thump of the bass rattles the metal bike frame. I walk past the ancient elevator and take the stairs to the third floor.

The lights are out in the third floor hallway. I stop and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The door across from me has plastic characters nailed to the center panel, plated in peeling faux brass: 3A. I move down the hall until I reach 3D. I stop and look at the door. The trim around the jamb was painted without being taped and brush marks slop over the trim and onto the wall haphazardly.